


setting sun, don't weep for all the things you lose

by AceMoppet



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jurassic Park References, Nonbinary Jaskier | Dandelion, Really ran away from me, Self-Discovery, Self-Love, Yeah this uh, You could read it as gen or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27801130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceMoppet/pseuds/AceMoppet
Summary: They never do make it to the coast together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 78
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #011





	setting sun, don't weep for all the things you lose

**Author's Note:**

> This really ran away from me, but it was the most fun I've had in ages!

They never do make it to the coast together.

Jaskier sighs as they lean against the railing, watching the water roar over the edge of the falls. It’s been at least seven, bordering on eight, centuries since their first life as a bard. They’ve come a long way since then- they’ve been a dancer, an artist, an actor. On the less artistic side, they’ve been a soldier, a doctor, and, during one entirely boring century, a  _ banker. _

… though that was mostly because they were hiding from the people who were starting to recognize them back then. Still, they’re never being a banker again, not if they can help it.

They’ve re-discovered themselves with each new century too. They’d known even back during their first life that they loved anyone and everyone regardless of gender, but they hadn’t known they themself weren’t male. Centuries had passed, and though they’d sometimes been in the very thick of the queer scenes, it had somehow taken them up to the last century to finally find a satisfactory label for themself in genderqueer. They’d started going by they/them pronouns long before then, and they’d of course been more or less comfortable with themself even longer, but the contentment that arrived with that last label felt like finding a pair of warm woolen socks in the bottom of your pack that fit you perfectly. In other words, cosy and homey.

All that time, all that growing and getting lost and found again, and  _ still  _ they never found their first best friend again.

To be fair, the first time around, they avoided Geralt like the plague for years after their bitter parting on Caingorn’s mountain- which was actually called the Dragon Mountain now after an excavation in the last century, so kudos to Borch and his mate for that. Then the Nilfgaardians had plundered the Continent and they’d had to go into hiding. And  _ then  _ they’d stumbled across an abandoned laboratory and had accidentally drunk a potion thinking it was magical vodka- which had then knocked them out for a couple years while they became immortal. And  _ then  _ they’d come back to Oxenfurt only to realize everyone had thought them dead.

All in all, a couple of eventful years. And it only got more eventful in their next lives.

They’d mourned Geralt in their next life- they were an artist that life, if they recall correctly, and they made countless drawings of their lost friend. They remember obsessing over the color of Geralt’s eyes- to this day, they’ve yet to find a paint that could match the brilliance they’d last seen glaring at them from the top of a mountain. They don’t remember much beyond that- they were too busy trying to numb themselves in drink and warm bodies, too busy grieving the death of their closest friend. It wasn’t until their sixth life that they even realized Geralt was still alive.

They’d just finally gotten over Geralt- all the years had softened the edges of their grief until they could face it head on. It helped that the world they lived in then had nothing in common with the world they’d been born into. And so of course that meant that Destiny had to stick her fingers in their life again- she always did love stirring shit up.

The 17th century had never seen Old Age monsters such as kikimoras and selkiemores. Certainly, they’d heard of them, but sometime around the 15th century, monsters and other non-humans began either dying or integrating themselves into society, and the monsters of old became relegated to myths on dusty pages or stories told around a bonfire. Until a mage experiment had gone wrong, that is.

Jaskier had been on the New Continent then, but even they had eventually heard about an independent group of mages who’d been trying to bring back a whole slew of Old Age monsters to make a zoo. Of course, it had all gone wrong- centuries had passed since the Old Age monsters had died out, and the mages had made them even more vicious than they’d used to be. To this day, people argue whether or not the mages intended for them to be more vicious or whether they were just an accident- personally, Jaskier is of the opinion that they meant for the monsters to be almost cruel in their viciousness. Bad prior experience with mages will leave you jaded like that.

In any case, the monsters had escaped, and there had been mass panic until the witchers had come out of retirement. Most, if not all, of them had hung up their swords, but it seemed as though they’d never forgotten their training. They fought through the Old Continent, killing monsters and saving people in an almost frantic frenzy. And when the dust settled…

Well, they were heroes.

Not that they hadn’t been before, or at least, the witcher Jaskier had known, but now  _ everyone  _ recognized it. They were lauded and applauded everywhere they went on the Old Continent, and even the New Continent became astir with the witchers. 

One legend had stood out from the rest.

‘The Angel’, they called him, reverential in a way Jaskier suspected that Geralt disliked. They wrote raptures to his silver hair, his gold eyes, his marble-like stature. They composed odes to the flash of his sword, to the strength of his arms. Hell, there was even erotica released- Jaskier had a couple of the early ones.

According to the popular opinion on the Old Continent, Geralt had single handedly rid them of their monsters. Jaskier had read between the lines and taken that to mean Geralt had just ridden hard and fast, focused only on his work until the battles were over and he could go sleep. A worthy feat, to be sure, but not the god-like heroics people had assigned him. And of course, since he was the only, truly identifiable witcher with his white hair…

Well. Suffice to say, the people of the Old Continent had gone  _ wild.  _

There was a renaissance then, for witcher art. Some people at Oxenfurt had “discovered” Jaskier’s work all over again- it had happened every couple of centuries or so at their old alma mater, but this time, the spike was incredibly huge, given that the White Wolf song cycle was rediscovered right after the Monster War, as the period of time became known.

...Monster War? Really?

All this to say, Jaskier had finally,  _ finally,  _ gotten over Geralt. And then Geralt’s sheer presence had come swinging back into their world, and Jaskier once again had their world shaken.

They’d boarded the next ship to the Old Continent- they’d have used a portal, but unfortunately, they’d been quite low on money. By the time they’d reached the Old Continent, however, Geralt had disappeared. Vanished into smoke, like he’d been nothing more than a dream Jaskier had only been having for the past couple of centuries. 

It reminded them eerily of the end of their first life, where they’d sought Geralt for as long as they could before they’d finally thought him dead. This time, however, Geralt’s name, or moniker really, was on everyone’s lips, and that was what gave them hope.

For the past few lives, they’ve been chasing Geralt. At first, it was without any care for themselves- they were frantic in a way they hadn’t been in centuries, grasping and wanting for even just a morsel of news about their old friend. They’d searched up and down the Old Continent for decades, even when news dwindled down again, even when Geralt’s name had been met with mild confusion instead of raptured joy.

Even when he’d once again been forgotten entirely.

One day, Jaskier’s third horse since they’d come back to the Old Continent had gotten pregnant, and they’d had to stop. They could have left their horse behind then, could have gotten another and continued on their search… but they were tired too. So they set up in a town with their horse (Brineheart, her name had been, for her salty nature), and stayed until she foaled. And then for a bit longer, as Lorelei (the mayor’s daughter had named her) grew. And then for a bit longer, as Lorelei foaled. And then…

One day, Jaskier woke up and realized they hadn’t chased Geralt in years. In fact, they hadn’t thought of Geralt in months, except as a passing wish of “oh I wish Geralt could see Lorelei canter, she’s quite beautiful” and the like. And they were…  _ happy. _

It was then they’d realized they’d never actually gotten over Geralt until now. How beautiful, then, to be open to the world they had long since closed themself off to. How wondrous, then, to be breathing without someone else’s name slipping through their lips. 

How freeing, then, to be living a life of their own for the first time since possibly Posada, without any ghosts to weigh them down. 

Geralt had slipped through their fingers like rainbow-colored mist off a waterfall, and maybe one day they’d find him again. But that didn’t mean they had to drive themself into the ground to find them.

And so, for the first time since their first life, they began to live again. They laughed, danced,  _ sang,  _ soaking in the world like a plant starved of sun. They loved and fought and screamed so loudly the earth shook, all with the euphoria of a bound bird finally flying free. They lived, gods damn it, they  _ lived,  _ and they were thankful for every last minute of it.

All passions die down- this they have learned throughout their many lives. Even this strange passion to kiss the world and bury themself in it slowly faded, but it faded from wildfire to a steady, warm candle flame they could carry in their heart wherever they went.

Like here, for instance. The warmth, the light in their chest does not flicker as they stand too close to the falls. Spray hits them directly in the face, and they laugh, spluttering at the taste of cold water in their mouth.

No, they never made it to the coast together. But Jaskier made it to the falls here, centuries after a mountain top, and honestly?

It’s better than the coast. 


End file.
